


Siren's Call

by holisticannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Witcher, M/M, Siren Will, merman will, witcher!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9485531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holisticannibal/pseuds/holisticannibal
Summary: A Hannibal and The Witcher AU. Hannibal the Witcher saves a dying siren from the hands of a sorceress friend. Sirens are sea creatures which typically take the form of a half-human with a fish's tail, a lot like mermaids or mermen but also equipped with fin-like wings. Deeply intrigued by the beautiful creature, Hannibal develops a fondness for him, something akin to falling in love.  Written for @hannibalcreative  #HannibalOdyssey.





	

_Witcher, someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals which take place at witcher schools such as Kaer Morhen in preparation for becoming an itinerant monster slayer for hire. Taken in as children, witchers-to-be are subjected to intense alchemical processes, consumption of mutagenic compounds, and relentless physical and magical training to make them dangerous and highly versatile against their vast array of opponents, many of which possess superhuman speed and strength. These procedures ultimately mean that each fully-trained witcher is a mutant built specifically to hunt and kill inhuman prey._

_All witchers have cat-like eyes that grant very acute night vision - witchers can constrict their pupils to see in blinding light or open them to see in near pitch darkness. Though a witcher's eyes are one way to stick out, another standard means of identification is the witcher medallion. This device aids in the detection of monsters, and no witcher would part with one willingly._

_It is a common belief, even among witchers themselves, that they have no capacity for emotion. This may be debatable, and rather relative, considering the rigours of their training and the dangers they face on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps they have simply never had the time or exposure to society to develop or recognise the reactions to mundane experiences that most take for granted. It may also be explained that a combination of their hard training, genetic modifications, and seclusion from society that may encourage blunted emotional expressions, as many of them still exhibit emotional heights concerning love, joy, fear, anger, lust, and sympathy…_

 

The room smells of cheap perfume, oily roast meat, sour alcohol and burnt tobacco. Dimly lit by candles and oil lamps, the vulgar decor of the room is sickening. Everything in the mansion feels like an assault to Hannibal’s enhanced senses. An uncomfortable grimace flashes across his face, but it's quickly replaced by a blank stoic expression that normal people would find intimidating.

Another cloud of smoke is blown from between the teeth of Lord Chilton towards Hannibal’s direction. It’s a rather rude gesture. The witcher twitches his nose again out of habit, his disdain and annoyance showing, but still he says nothing - mainly because he, regrettably, has to admit that right now he really needs a few more crowns for his journey south. The last wendigo hunt has cost him his old horse Bentley, among other things, and the reward was barely enough to cover what he’s lost. 

“See you’re not from ‘round here. What’s brought ye to Spikeroog?” Lord Chilton looks into Hannibal’s blood red, cat-like eyes.

The uneasiness on the man’s face is obvious, Hannibal muses. Without breaking his gaze, he takes out a neatly folded notice he has torn off the notice board at the crossroad near the gate to the village. To make it purposefully intimidating, he slams it on the Lord’s desk unnecessarily hard. 

“My name is Hannibal. I’ve heard you’ve got a job for a witcher.” The witcher says, his expression and voice remain neutral, skilfully masking the impatience rising in him. 

"A witcher, eh?" Lord Chilton taps his fingers on his desk.

Like all of his kind, the man carries two long, heavy swords, one steel, one silver. They are strapped securely to his back over his thick leather armour. The weapons have been evidently well kept, frequently polished, even though dents and stains from whatever monsters they had slain still remain. The witchers' medallion resting on his thick chest is a silver growling wolf with red eyes, a symbol of the witchers' profession, shaped to represent the school the witcher comes from, in his case, Kaer Morhen. 

The witcher before him has strong physique, and arguably, quite a handsome appearance with his eerie eyes deeply set in his skull, making his cheekbones seem sharper and more prominent. There are numerously scars on his face, old and new. Hannibal considers them proud gifts from past battles, Lord Chilton however fears them. 

His hair is long, braided into a clean ponytail behind him to stop the longer strands from blocking his eyes. His hair is in a strange colour, largely silvery white but also laced with a chaos mix of blonde, goldenrod and brown threads. It is rumoured that white hair is a result from the mutation that all witchers are forced to suffer through as child. 

A freak of nature, that’s what witchers are, paid to do the dirty jobs. Lord Chilton sneers at him, doesn’t care to hide his despise towards the man’s profession.

_Rude._

A shiver runs through his body as the witcher narrows his eyes at him, so he quickly diverts his eyes.

Hannibal is running out of patience. He repeats, “Lord Chilton, do you have a job for me or not?“ 

The notice offers a contract with rewards for anyone who are willing to risk their lives in assisting the capture of the monsters lurking along the shoreline that has taken eight girls from the fishing village of Svorlag on the island of Spikeroog.

“Too late. You’re too late. The job's been taken.” Lord Chilton says. “No, I no longer have a job for you.”

That peeks Hannibal’s interest. He hasn’t met one of his own kind for quite a while. “The job is taken? Taken by another witcher?” 

“It’s none of your concern, but no.” Lord Chilton gives him a cunning grin that makes the man looks more intelligent than he really is. “It’s taken by a sorceress, a sorceress who goes by the name Bedelia Du Maurier. I doubt you’ve heard about her. She has agreed to all my terms in exchange for her service in slaying the…beasts.”

Sorceresses are female mages who are skilled and educated in the use of magic. Because of their powers, mages age more slowly than ordinary people. They can extract magical energy from the four elements, transport themselves long distances and heal, as well as kill, in the blink of an eye. They have extensive scientific and political knowledge. 

Hannibal purses his lips, a knowing expression in his usually impassive eyes. Bedelia is an old acquaintance - no, to be exact, he once had an affair with the beautiful, remarkable woman - Sweet alyssum and gooseberry, Hannibal can still remember her scent. Tart like a gooseberry, sweet like alyssum, much like her personality.

Wine made in this area is notoriously awful, but Hannibal would still very much like to meet up with Bedelia for a drink. The witcher gives Lord Chilton a curt nod then turns away, ready to leave. “In that case, very well.”

Lord Chilton bites his lips. “BUT- WAIT-I SAID WAIT!“

Hannibal pauses his hand on the door handle, he turns towards the petty Lord, his pale eyebrows raised in question. 

“I mean…The more the merrier right? If you can bring down the monsters before her, I’ll give you the same amount I promised her as reward. 300 crowns,” Lord Chilton says, but adds quickly, “…not… negotiable.” 

“Alright.” Hannibal shrugs. “Do you have any idea what kind of monsters they are? Any sightings? I need details.”

The Lord huffs. “No, no sighting, nothing, we only have the bodies. You are the professional, why don’t you tell me.” 

Hannibal thins his lips. “Then show me the bodies.”

—

The sight of the dead rarely shakes the witcher. His gaze passes over most of them with perfect indifference, but not this time.

This is curious. There are eight dead girls before him in the basement, all with similar mutilations on their pale bodies and evidence of missing internal organs. They were probably still alive when their organs were removed. The wounds are unnatural, as if someone is trying almost too hard to mimic bite and claw marks of wild creatures. There is something peculiar about the corpses. They share too many similarities. Same hair colour. Roughly same age, height, weight. Unless the monsters in question are picky eaters, there is slim chance that these killings were committed by inhuman creatures. 

In other words, these are murders committed by humans, not by creatures, so there is no place for a witcher in this case. Hannibal clicks his tongue in dismay. A waste of his precious time. 

He is about to tell Lord Chilton what he has observed in length when a servant of his rushes in and whispers something in his master’s ear. 

“You are no longer needed, Witcher. The monsters have been caught. Sirens.” Lord Chilton says cooly to Hannibal as he breezes towards the stairs to prepare for the reward he promised the sorceress as payment, then to the servant boy he says, “Escort Mister Witcher here out.”

“Sirens?” Hannibal’s eyebrows cannot be raised higher. 

Sirens are sea creatures which typically take the form of a half-human, male or female, with a fish's tail like mermen or mermaids, and a pair of giant fin-like wings like harpies. They appear to rule the undersea world and wield mysterious power. Their language is a variant of the Elder Speech. It is possible, but not confirmed that they can summon the dreaded krakens if the need arises. They are described as having flowing hair, pale skin and long fish tails covered in scales. 

Like skilled hunters setting out wooden ducks to lure in drakes, sirens lure men near using their own bodies as decoys. Legends have it that they resemble beautiful human maidens and young men, though with tails covered in silver scales instead of legs. Once a naive victim gets within arm’s reach of these beautiful creatures, their fair faces suddenly turn to fang-filled, fish-like maws, and lovely tails promising unknown delights become sharp, death dealing talons. 

They usually hunt in flocks, making use of their numbers as well as their ability to move effortlessly through water and air. On the ground, however, they are virtually defenceless. Threatened or injured sirens will let out a terrifying shriek, leaving their opponents stunned while they escape. 

Instinct tells him that the monsters responsible are definitely not sirens. The witcher is also very aware of the term ‘caught', so he asks the boy quietly, “Do you know where I can find the sorceress?”

—

Riding along on his new horse Bentley (Hannibal names every horse of his ‘Bentley’, for the sake of convenience), Hannibal follows the carts that carry the sad dead girls’ bodies to the city square of the village.

The sky is gloomy, thin rain is just beginning to fall. A melancholy weather perfect for a funeral, or execution. Villagers have already gathered, vaguely in a circle around a large funeral pyre made of dry wood for burning bodies. 

The crowd is dressed mostly in black, except for a single stoic lady with blonde hair who is wearing a long, elegant burgundy cape with hood. 

Hannibal smiles. He unmounts from his horse and navigates through the gathering crowd silently with ease, his stride quiet but purposeful, predatory. He stops behind the sorceress like a shadow, his face leans in against the back of her neck as he takes a subtle sniff. She still smells enchantingly like sweet alyssum and gooseberry. Lovely.

The sorceress sighs, “Did you just smell me?”

“You smell wonderful, Bedelia.” 

“We're at a funeral, Hannibal.” 

“You smell wonderful at this funeral.” Hannibal chuckles.

At that, Bedelia rolls her eyes, turning slightly to glare at the witcher. Hearing the low, husky voice of him alone still sends chills down her spine even after all these years. 

Hannibal looks at Bedelia, not surprised that she looks exactly the same as she did when they parted ways years ago. She literally has not aged a day. Framed by long, wavy soft blonde hair, her face is very pale, oval in shape with a slightly receded chin. Her eyes are cold and sparkling in a remarkable bluish green penetrating gaze, in anger blazing with livid, blue fire. Those very eyes also conceal wisdom and imperiousness. On her long and slender neck hanged a black marigold with a skull made of obsidian sparkling with a multitude of tiny diamonds embedded in it.  

After a short moment of silence, Hannibal says in a more serious manner as if he is stating it as fact. “The sirens didn’t kill the girls.” 

“Why do you bother?” Bedelia questions him, her voice slow and low, void of emotions. “I’m giving these people closure.”

Hannibal searches the crowd, his gaze lands on a man and a girl that looks like father and daughter. The girl possesses all the similar qualities of the murder victims. The witcher narrows his eyes with suspicion. “Justice is not served.” 

Bedelia counters, “Justice is overrated when closure is impossible.” 

“You’ve changed, Bedelia.” Hannibal observes.

“You’ve changed me.” Bedelia says coldly. “Time’s changed me.”

It’s not the best time to dwell on their past, so Hannibal asks instead, “What have you done with the creatures, the sirens?”

“Lord Chilton-“ There is disdain in her voice, “wants me to deliver the creatures to him, preferably alive. He wants them hanged and displayed at the main gate. A common behaviour of their sorts, a display of power.”

Public execution is a fairly common entertainment for people these days.

“Tasteless.” Hannibal comments. 

“Vulgar.” Bedelia agrees. 

“Why are you helping him?”

“I have my reasons.” Bedelia dodges the question. 

The reason is likely a political one. Sorceresses are actively involved in politics and controlling power dynamics between the Lords in the region. Witchers, on the other hand, prefer to stay away from wars and conflicts, remaining neutral, minding their own business. 

Hannibal considers it unwise to ask further, so he changes the subject, one that concerns him more, “Where are you keeping them? How many are there? Are they alive?”

“Three, and yes, they’re alive. Lord Chilton prefers them that way...for the sake of drama and thrill to execute them himself in front of his people.” Bedelia answers flatly. “Why are you asking?”

“Does it _really_ matter so terribly to Chilton if the sirens are dead?” Hannibal asks innocently. 

Bedelia looks at him, reading his expression, one of her wise eyes blinks when she tries to understand the witcher. Hannibal always finds her single eye blink endearing. “No. But then again, why? You want to save the creatures?”

The witcher hasn’t missed the mocking in her tone. Bedelia has seen enough of him to see the truth of him, and what he is capable of. 

“You have misunderstood me, Bedelia. Far from it. I want to kill them myself.” 

“Perhaps killing them, ending their misery? You are a witcher, Hannibal. How is one creature worthy of compassion and another not?”

“My intension is practical.” Hannibal explains with all honesty. “Siren vocal cords are rare to come by these days, and they have to be harvested while the specimen is still alive. I know a sword master who still crafts Griffin steel swords with them. He’d pay fairly handsomely. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not letting them go to waste.”

Extreme acts of cruelty no longer concern her, not really. She has lived long enough to witness the ugliness of humanity, she has seen far worse. 

Bedelia looks at Hannibal. She knows she owes him that much, so she shrugs, “Come with me.”

—

Slipping away from the funeral unnoticed, Bedelia leads Hannibal to a dark woods near the sea. Salt water has formed deep pools on the forest ground. They are all suspiciously clear, not at all as muddy as the swamps lurked by drowners. Nonetheless, drowners are common in these types of landscape, Hannibal keeps his witcher’s sense on alert. 

“Be careful, these pools run deep. Follow my steps.” Bedelia tells him cooly. The sorceress moves with a natural, unforced grace effortlessly on the narrow strips of muddy ground dividing the pools. Hannibal watches her movement with an appreciative expression.

Then, Hannibal smells them. He smells them before he sees them, or hears the weak but high pitch screeches that escape dry lips. 

The three sirens are secured to the branches of a giant tree above, their wrists tied together by magic bound ropes above their heads. Their bodies are kept out of water, except for the portion from thigh down where human looking skin fades and replaced by bluish green scales of a fish. 

Sirens are fascinating, a perfect blend of three types of creatures - They have the upper torso of a human, lower torso of a fish, and wings on their lower backs like bats. With their wings and tail hidden underwater, they look just like any human from afar - humans with translucent pale skin, perfect, alluring bodies and delicate, beautiful facial features. 

Still in a guarded stance, Hannibal leans forward and peeks into the deep water. The sirens’ curled up tails are strong but rather long in proportion, looking more like tails of giant snakes than fish. The tails are not the most freakish part of the creature, no, not in comparison with their wings. The wings that extend from their lower back are fin-like, with thick but translucent membranes of skin connecting between bone structure. The thumb at the tip of the wings extends out as a small claw, much like bats that use them to climb up trees and other structures. If the wings are expanded to its full span, they would certainly look magnificent, but not now. 

Two of the three captured sirens have their wings snapped and broken like fragile baby birds, raw muscles and bones exposed. Their skin drying, their mouths opening and closing like fishes out of water, making unsettling gasping noises while desperately trying to get air through their drying gills. The gills on their neck are not adapted for them to survive out of water for extended period of time, they will eventually dry out and collapse, leading the creature to a slow and painful death. 

The two sirens with broken wings are going to die very soon, Hannibal can already smell the beginning rot of death on them, but the third one is not. He approaches the two dying sirens, and one by one, he slits their throats with a sharp folded knife he produces out of nowhere, a clean kill that before the creatures realise what is going to happen, they have already stopped breathing. With a precision of an experienced witcher, Hannibal slices the siren’s vocal cords out from their neck, his hands stained burgundy red with their blood as he places the harvested organs into a special bag he has prepared. 

Hannibal washes his hands meticulously clean in the water. He stands and walks towards the third siren hanging from the tree. The siren has an enchanting face just like the other two, but his facial features - as well as his flat chest - are unmistakably male. Male sirens are very rare. There are rumours that male sirens do not exist at all. Unlike the other two, the creature is breathing quietly, even though in pain, he appears very calm…way too calm, Hannibal notices, as if he is holding in his breaths. To prove his point, Hannibal purposefully leans in, exposing his thick neck to the creature like a bait. 

With a vicious growl, the siren uses all of his remaining strength to give Hannibal a forceful bite. Hannibal’s witcher reflex allows him to dodge the attack, but the sharp fangs still manage to graze his neck, leaving a long but light cut across the artery on his neck. Hooded blue eyes of the male siren are now wide opened staring at the witcher, blazed with defiance. 

Bedelia gasps, while Hannibal’s lips are pulled into a feral grin. A remarkable creature, wounded, scared, but still a magnificent predator. Hannibal looks at him in appreciation, utterly intrigued by his nature. An interest and an idea spark in his eyes, perhaps he just wants to annoy Bedelia, perhaps he doesn’t want the siren to die, either way, Hannibal is determined to save this creature. 

Realising his intention, Bedelia frowns and warns him immediately. “Don’t you dare, Hannibal.”

Hannibal, however, is not even listening, as if the witcher is under the spell of the siren’s charm, his expression is dazed, stoic, with just a hint of amusement hanging at the corner of his lips. Bedelia has seen this intrigued expression on Hannibal’s face before, then she knows. There is no way she can stop him from getting what he wants. It’s an unsettling sight. The tips of Hannibal’s sharp teeth are showing through his loosened lips, the desire on his face simply savage as he turns towards Bedelia, daring her to stop him - a teensy glimpse of how dangerous Hannibal can be. 

An obsession is forming in the witcher’s inhuman eyes. Hannibal is always prone to obsession, partly because of the way he is, partly because after feeling so lonely for such a long time, when he finds someone or something that he likes, he’d be helplessly drawn to it. 

Most witchers kill monsters only for money, no matter the creatures are good or not; but Hannibal is different. He chooses to kill, or not kill, depends largely on his own interest. He doesn’t care much about the human lives that he’s meant to save, not even the slightest. In his eyes, some men are far more monstrous. 

Highly unprofessional. Bedelia shakes his head. Her left eye blinks once, and twice as she watches Hannibal kneels down next to the young male siren and whispers something in his ear with a tilt of his head. Silently, the sorceress decides to turn away and leave him be. Getting a drink of that awful local wine seems a better use of her time. 

In Elder Speech, Hannibal speaks to the siren intimately, “It would be best if you stay still and refrain from biting me again because I’m going to free you now. Please stay still.”’

Even though his Elder Speech is heavily accented, the siren can understand the man’s words perfectly. His voice is deep and low, soothing and alluring. He hisses a warning, showing his fangs again, but he is not attacking the witcher again, not anymore. 

Little does the witcher know the only thing that is stopping the siren from snapping and biting him is because he smells _wrong, different_ for a human. Most importantly, the man is a predator no doubt because an inborn panic rises in the creature’s chest as Hannibal reaches out to trace a deep bleeding wound on his cheek. Two calloused fingers brush off the wet blood on the skin, bringing the still warm liquid to his own lips, red tongue flicks out quickly as if he is tasting a delicacy. 

The man is tasting him, tasting his blood. 

The siren can’t help but flinch and wince. Eye contact is not something he is fond of, but he makes himself look into the man’s animalistic red eyes. His instinct is telling him to lash out, to bite, or to claw, but somehow he just couldn’t do it. He feels a strange sense of calm washes over him instead when he holds gaze with the inhuman man. There is an emotion in there that almost akin kindness, and affection in the man’s eyes. Deeply intrigued, fascinated even. He has never seen such an expression on a man’s face without the conscious influence of his siren’s charm. It’s most peculiar, and terrifying. 

The siren’s consciousness is fast fading. Hannibal looks at him. The creatures’s dehydrated hooded eyes are trying very hard to stay open. If not for the water that is covering the lower part of his tail, he would have been dried up completely, and pretty much dead by now. He feels his entire body is hurting, his fevered mind is giving him a terrible throb inside his skull, his tied hands and injured wings have long gone numb and cold, he can no longer move or feel them. The moment he is cut down from the tree, pain seises his mind as blood begins rushing back into them. He utters a whimper and a broken screech, and the man hushes him tenderly. 

The ripple of hurt comes and goes, once the pain has subsided, the siren immediately tries to escape, wriggling away with a flip of his slippery tail, or a flap of his sore wings, but he can do none of these. 

Though witchers are not warrior mages who employ powerful magic, they can cast simple magic spells that can prove effective when used properly. Witchers call these spells Signs and usually use them against monsters, though they also have non-combat applications. Axii is a Sign used to charm and mentally effect another being. 

“Go to sleep.” 

The siren hears the witcher’s tender voice whispers to him, a bright green light flashes before his eyes, then his body immediately goes limp, and he can no longer remember or feel anything. 

Helplessly, the siren feels himself being picked up by the witcher with impossible ease. One arm goes around his back and the other around the bend in his tail. His limp body is held protectively close to a thick chest by strong arms. The siren can feel his long tail being dragged unpleasantly on the forest ground behind them, probably covered in dirt and dead leaves by now.

There is a hot darkness pulling at the corner of his eyes, luring him into sleep, but the siren can feel it, feeling the pull of water. The strange man is taking him back to the sea or…? He doesn’t dare to imagine what horrible fate is awaiting him. His instinct is telling him that the man who is not a man is probably going to eat him raw.

—

Lord Chilton is holding a grand feast to celebrate the execution of monsters that ate eight girls in his village. Hannibal searches the crowds critically, locating his target. The entire village is here, but the witcher finds the man he is looking for almost too easily. 

The witcher knows well that the sirens did not kill the girls. His senses and instincts are telling him it’s the skinny, bald man who murdered those girls. He can practically smell the girls on the seemingly harmless guy. Hannibal is not particularly troubled by the young girls’ death. Deaths are everywhere in this day and age, but the monstrosity of men who commit dark crimes always intrigue him.

Putting on his most charming demeanour, the witcher approaches the man, starting a casual conversation. It’s what witchers do when they need information, chatting up local villagers at taverns, in the wild, and Hannibal is extremely good at gaining people’s trust. 

The man is named Garret Jacob Hobbs, and beside him is his daughter, Abigail Hobbs. They are pearl divers, collecting pearl mussels and oysters from rocky shores for a living. While Hannibal generously shares his knowledge on the colourations of pearls with them, his mind is racing with multiple trains of thoughts, planning something entertaining.

“Are the poor girls pearl divers too?” Hannibal asks, observing how uncomfortable the girl Abigail seems when the murdered girls are casually brought up. Her wild blue eyes darting between Hannibal and his father in alert.

“What? No- no- they’re, um, fishermen’s daughters. I don’t know the girls, but they are-were-um, Abigail’s friends.” Garret Jacob Hobbs answers vaguely. He hurriedly bids the witcher farewell right away. 

Hannibal nods and gives him the most friendly smile. With grace, he approaches a server and takes up another cup of wine, wandering around the hall, blending in perfectly with the crowd. He looks at the vulgar arts hanging on walls with an indifferent expression, listening to the song of the ladies singing for the celebration, watching couples dance with clumsy moves, enjoying his time while he can. As a witcher who has to face death often, he’s always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that his life could end at any moment frees him to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world has to offer.

Sweet alyssum and gooseberry.

The fragrance of Bedelia Du Maurier reaches him as the gorgeous woman enters the hall with the company of Lord Chilton. Hannibal’s nostrils flare has he takes in her scent. He turns to the side and looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. There is a faint blush on her cheeks, her blood alcohol infused. She is wearing a stunning red dress in the shade of blood. 

Bedelia always looks gorgeous in red, Hannibal muses. A flash of displease comes and goes in the witcher’s eyes, however, as Lord Chilton takes the sorceress’ hand, basically following her around the hall of the feast like an annoying shadow.

“Gorgeous woman, isn’t she?” A stranger’s voice says next to Hannibal, clearly trying to get his attention. When Hannibal turns a side eye to the grinning man, he introduces himself without Hannibal asking him, “Name’s Dimmond.”

The man has curly hair and dressed elegantly. Based on his stylish, delicate woven scarf with golden threads, the man is either an academic, a poet, a minstrel, or a bard - or all of the above. 

Hannibal gives the man a courteous nod and a charming half-grin. “Hannibal, Witcher.”

Dimmond raises his eyebrows in surprise but it’s not the usual kind that laced with disgust. Normally wealthy people would flee right after Hannibal tells them what his profession is bluntly. There is a superstition about how witchers are omens of bad luck among the higher society, but the man Dimmond seems more impressed than afraid. 

“I’d offer a hand, but -“ Dimmond laughs, he is holding a golden goblet of wine in each of his hand. 

“It's a double-fisted kind of bash.” Hannibal blinks. 

“Do you know the Lord well? You were staring with the thinly-veiled disdain-“ Dimmond takes a sip from the cup in his right hand, then his left. “of a man who does.”

“No.” But the witcher’s face is grinning in agreement.

“You don’t have to be polite.” Dimmond nods knowingly and comments. “It’s terrible, you know? Holding such a feast like this right after the funeral? Eight dead girls!” 

“They are unfortunate deaths.” Hannibal concurs, the tone of his voice neutral. “It’s a celebration for the killing of the Beasts. Did you attend the execution of the sirens?” 

“I did, I did. A horrible deed. Simply Barbaric. Seeing such beautiful creatures destroyed pains me. I’ve once written a poem about their beauty. It’s a story about a foolish sailor falling in love with a wounded siren. It took me six months to write the first line.”

Hannibal turns to look at him. “Why?”

“Why? Poetry is hard.” Dimmond scoffs.

 _Boring._ Shrugging indifferently, Hannibal returns his intense gaze back to Bedelia. She is now dancing with Lord Chilton, her face still wearing a graceful smile even though she is obviously loathing it. Curious. She is doing everything she can to please the Lord, and Hannibal wonders what is her intention behind her actions, and her organisation. 

To distract himself from wondering further about meaningless politics, Hannibal asks the poet casually, “What became of the sailor in your story? Of the siren?”

“He died.” Dimmond answers with a smug. “The siren lured him to deep waters, dragging him to the bottom of the sea, consuming his heart. It’s a tragic love that isn't supposed to end well right from the beginning.” 

“A deadly game of love, almost like a crime.” Hannibal comments. “If you were to give a different ending to the story, what would it be?”

Dimmond frowns and considers, “Interesting, I've never considered the possibility of giving them an alternate end. Um, perhaps less violent… I’ll let you know when inspiration strikes.” 

“Please do.” Hannibal chuckles, he is not interested in the poet at all. He gives the poet a final smile and a nod, courteously excusing himself from the rather dull conversation.

Lord Chilton is introducing Bedelia to other wealthy members in his court now. An inappropriate jealousy rises in Hannibal as he watches his former lover gives the hideous old men her arrogant but bright smile. The witcher tips the cup in his hand, finishing the remaining wine in one go. The wine tastes awfully sour and bitter on his tongue.

Walking pass the long table piled with all kinds of delicacies, Hannibal takes a silver platter casually in his hands and starts piling up on it a bit of everything on the table, fish, shellfish and oysters mainly, but also some rabbit, deer, pork roast…before storming out of the hall with the food. 

Nobody dares to step in or stop the fearsome witcher as soon as they see the murderous glint in his red eyes. 

—

 _He is alive._

The siren’s stormy blue eyes slowly open to a clear, starry sky. 

It’s night time, there is a full moon shining above, casting a white glow on everything in the surrounding, on the rocks, on the rippling surface of the jade blue water he is submerged in. He’s not dead, not yet. On the contrary, he is in the safety of a warm caved space, sheltered from the brutal wild wind blowing outside. It’s like a nest, the type of landscape that a siren would prefer as resting place. The scent of the space is clean, unoccupied by any other creatures other than him. 

He is floating on the surface on the water, no longer restrained. His mind begins testing his body, registering the status of his injuries caused by the brutal blows from the wicked land witch. 

Most of the wounds on his body has long stopped bleeding, but his muscles and bones are still aching all over. His wings are elegantly folded as they should be while he is in water on his lower back. He tries stretching them out, flapping them, but instantly terrified by a spasm of pain that courses through him. Maybe his wings are damaged, maybe they are not, but the situation is not good. A siren cannot survive long without their wings.There is no way he can fly away now, or at least for a long while. 

Panting heavily from the pain, he swishes his long tails restlessly from side to side in the deep water, mildly relived to find at least his tail seems to be largely intact, still functioning despite having a few cuts that are fortunately not deep enough to hurt the bones. 

He tries to take in his surrounding as much as he can manage. The pool of water he is submerged in is cool, clean, deep and pleasant enough, but apparently completely isolated from the sea. It resembles a nest, a secluded hide out. The pool is surrounded by large slabs of white stone that rest by the water's edge, large stalactites grow from the ceiling high above. The surface of the water is not still but rippling gently. A small waterfall flows freely into the pool from above surrounded by a collapsed grotto, giving the pool of water life. The ceiling and surrounding cliffs of the grotto are decorated by green plants that the siren has never seen before. 

The point is, he doesn’t know where he is, and he is almost certain that he is far from the sea, far from home, but then before he panics, there are sounds of distant waves and they catch his attention, so near and yet so far. So he is in fact at somewhere near the sea. Upon hearing something familiar, the siren manages to calm himself down. 

Unless he flies - which he cannot right now with his severe injuries - he won’t be able to leave the cave, effectively making it a little prison for the siren. The cave is brightly lit by moonlight. Just squinting his light-sensitive eyes, he can see a path leaving the cave, perhaps he can crawl across the dry land with his hands and tail, and find a way out, but it will be a very risky thing to do. He doesn’t even know where the path leads. He’ll very likely dry up before his hands can touch any water again.

“Hello.” A low, husky voice greets him in Elder Speech from behind, echoing in the hollow space. 

It gives the creature a start. Alarmed, the siren turns to the source of the voice on land. 

A sharp warning screech escapes his throat because he remembers the white haired man. He’s the one who cut him down and carried him away from the jungle pools. 

The man put up his hands, signalling that he means no harm. Every word of his spoken slowly, “Please remain calm. I’m not going to hurt you. I can carry you back to the sea right away, if that is what you desire. Though I suspect you have realised, you won’t survive long in open waters given how bad your injuries are. You will need time to heal.” 

The man keeps speaking to him in Elder Speech with a curious accent. The siren listens, deciding, contemplating in his mind ways to protect himself or strike back if he was attacked. 

The man continues, “It was terribly rude for my friend to hurt you like that. I apologise to you on her behalf. Please let me take care of you until you are strong enough to go home.” 

With all sincerity, the man moves to sit by the rocky edge of the pool. The siren watches him roll up the clothing covering his two hideous legs, exposing the two skin coloured sticks with his bare feet dangling, splashing playfully a bit on the silky water surface close to him. 

If the siren wants, he can now easily plunge forward and drag the man into water. 

The man is putting himself in a vulnerable position. A display of trust, and the desire to be trusted. 

The siren tilts his head, slightly relaxed now that they are more or less on equal grounds. Seeing the guarded expression on the siren creature softens, a pleased smile appears on the man’s thin lips. 

“I’ve brought food. Are you hungry, Little One?” He gestures at a pile of food placed next to him. 

Smelling the aroma of food, an embarrassing growl is emitted from the siren’s stomach, reminding him that he hasn't eaten since…when? Days ago. And he is really, really hungry right now. 

The creature darts his eyes between the food and the man back and forth suspiciously, but considering accepting the offer. 

“No, it’s not poisoned, I wouldn't do that to the food. If I wanted to kill you it would've already been done. Look, we’ll share it. I only want for you to get better.” Hannibal chuckles low, to stress the point, he picks up a random piece of fish, put it in his mouth and swallows it. “Trust me, Little One. Would you take a bite for me, please?”

The siren pouts his lips. He drifts on his back, striking the water and immerses himself with an abrupt movement of his tail. The water foams where it is churned by the fin. 

For a moment while he is underwater, the siren has considered dragging the man down by his legs. It’s a tempting thought, drowning and eating him, but the creature knows his body is too weak to fight. The man has a strange scent that doesn’t smell like human at all. There are also shiny weapons conveniently placed close to the man. Before his injured wings are fully healed, he is essentially trapped in this place. It may not be wise to provoke the man, for now. 

When the siren resurfaces, he is within arm’s reach of the witcher. Half of his body is propelled out of the calm water surface by his long, giant snake-like tail. Water runs down the siren’s dredged curly hair. Hannibal’s gaze slowly lowers, following the water down the curve of his neck, his thick shoulder blades, the based of his folded wings, his prominent spine, his bare smooth, tight hips and thighs, crossing the blurred line where human flesh fades into pale silvery blue scales that glitter under the moonlight. 

An amused glee ripples minutely across Hannibal’s face. The siren’s flawless, beautiful face is impossibly close to his stubbled and scarred one now, the inhuman and feral stormy blue eyes stare into Hannibal’s red ones unblinking, looking and not looking. The siren has an asymmetrical face, but somehow the combination of his features make him the most beautiful man Hannibal has ever seen.

“Beautiful.” Impressed, Hannibal exclaims in his mind.

The siren, on the contrary, let out something between an annoyed scoff and an unimpressed laugh right in his face. 

He says slowly but clearly in Common Speech, “Stop speaking in Elder Speech, stop trying so hard, you have a funny accent. And stop calling me ‘Little One’, for I am no little.” 

The siren is surprisingly fluent in Common Speech. Despite his apparent grumpy temper, his voice is pleasant and gentle to the witcher’s ears. He wonders how he’d sound when he sings. Rumour has it that a Siren’s song is so enchanting, it’s a song of death, the last piece of music one would hear before being dragged to the bottom of the sea.

Taking no offence to the insult, Hannibal gives him another mischievous grin, the tip of his fangs just visible between his cracked opened lips. 

Seeing how pleased the man appears, the siren scowls, utterly puzzled and annoyed. There is not an ounce of fear in the man’s inhuman eyes. 

What an unnatural weirdo. 

“What shall I call you then?” The man asks in delight.

After a long pause, the siren answers with a huff of dismay. “…Willahelm.” 

“Willahelm.” The man tries his best to imitate the pronunciation, but it still sounds all wrong to the siren’s pointy ears.

“No. Will-a-helm! Will-“ Agitated by the insult of his name, the siren sighs. “Ugh. Never mind it. Just call me _Will_.”

A pleased smile again blossom on the witcher’s thin lips. “Hello, Will. My name is Hannibal.” 

“Han-ni…bal? Funny name. What are you? You are not human, wrong smell, and you have, um, bad eyes too.” Will comments bluntly.

“Rude.” Hannibal chuckles, it’s a rare, genuine laugh. “I am a witcher. I kill monsters for a living.”

“What monsters?” 

_Monsters like you._ Hannibal gives him a harmless smile. “Monsters that has killed people.”

Will stares at him, confused, his guard is coming back up again. “I haven’t killed anyone.” … _for a while._

“I know you didn’t kill those girls.“ Hannibal assures him.

“Girls? What girls?” Will shakes his head. He only eats human that hurt sea dogs. He volunteered to be a protector of sea dogs after coming of age because he loves those creatures very dearly. They are his family and he cannot bear to see them get hurt. “Uh, whatever you say, witcher. Where are my sisters?”

 _He didn’t know?_ Hannibal looks at him. He was the one who gave the other two sirens a quick death, but the siren was probably in too much suffering himself to notice it. 

“I’m afraid I couldn’t save them.” Hannibal answers neutrally, keeping the truth from the creature.

Will’s frown deepens, but he nods his acceptance. Looking away, he bites back a sorrowful sniff. Death is not something uncommon out in the wild sea, he is used to experience it by now. They are not his sisters by blood anyway, but still. He closes his eyes and murmurs a prayer in ancient tongue, then he says quietly, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life." 

Hannibal watches his innocent face, deeply intrigued. 

They both remain quiet, until the heavy silence is broken by a faint but fierce growl. There is an urgent want in the siren’s stomach that he can no longer ignore. He has no other option now. Life is precious, he is not going to let himself starve to death. 

Giving the witcher a hard stare, Will leaps forward, reaches for an oyster on the silver plate the man offers him. He put the shell to his lips, tipping it gently, letting the tender meat slide down his throat in one smooth motion. 

The oyster meat has been dressed in an exotic herb oil that he has never tried before. It tastes exquisite. His eyes close momentarily, giving in to a moment of bliss. He then demands. “I’ll have another.” 

Hannibal’s eyes watch him chews intently. He grins at the siren, pushing the platter to the water edge like a gesture of invitation. He says indulgently, “Very well. Please help yourself.” 

The wind outside has subsided. Distant waves and rippling water are the only sounds in the cave as the siren’s tail swishing back and forth under him. Sitting peacefully at the rock edge, Hannibal the witcher and Will the siren share the plate of stolen food in a rather comfortable manner. Hannibal is not particularly hungry, but his gaze on Will says otherwise.

—

Hannibal notices the siren prefers eating fish and shellfish rather land meat. No, he is solely eating food that are familiar to him. His cautiousness understandable because it’s wiser for a wild creature not to consume unfamiliar things fed by unfamiliar humans. 

“You only eat fishes and shellfish?” Hannibal asks.

Will considers. “No, not only.” 

“Squids?” Not sure if he is pronouncing the term right in Elder Speech, Hannibal wiggle his fingers mimicking a squid’s movements. As if insulted by the siren’s criticism on his accent, he insists speaking Elder Speech to the creature.

“Yes.”

“Shrimps?”

“Yes.”

“How about animals with warm blood? Like seals?” Hannibal makes a movement with his hands like drawing circles resembling the round head and long body of a seal.

“Seals?- You mean…Oh, no, no, no. We call them sea-dogs. Ew. No. Sea dogs are not food. I love them.” Will frowns. “Do YOU eat sea dogs?”

Will is giving Hannibal a very unamused borderline murderous expression that Hannibal finds very endearing. “No, I don’t.” 

And the siren relaxes again. Out of curiosity, Hannibal picks up a piece of meat, and offers it to the creature like a challenge. “Would you dare to try this?”

“What is this?”

“Deer.”

“Deer?”

“With four legs, and antlers.” Hannibal briefly makes his opened hands into a pair of antlers on his head. 

“Four legs? Ew.” Two-legged humans already disgust him, let alone creatures with four legs. Will winkles his nose up and his mouth down, but stares into the witcher’s red eyes with defiance. 

Slowly and hesitantly, he inches towards Hannibal, stretches out the curve of his elegant neck, and takes the offered morsel directly from between the man’s fingers. 

Feeling the cool touch of a flick of the siren’s tongue on his fingertips, Hannibal watches the siren’s pale throat bobbing up and down as he swallows with intent gaze. For a second he thought he can see the veins pulsing underneath the pale skin, the rhythm in sync with his own heartbeat. The witcher licks his own lips as an unknown pleasure ripples through his body. 

The creature probably has no idea how sensual he looks when he let the witcher feed him.

The siren chews on the meat thoughtfully. The roast meat tastes dry on his tongue, it’s rather unpleasant. He makes a disgusted face and comments innocently, “I don’t like it. It’s very dry, and it tastes funny. I prefer meat from a man. - Oh.”

Realising he’s just admitted to eating a man, the siren quirks his mouth in regret. 

The witcher, oddly, doesn’t seem particularly bothered, instead he chuckles, “Are you telling me you’d prefer eating raw human meat than this?” 

Will shrugs, no point in denying it now, and Hannibal chuckles more. 

They talk a bit more about the siren’s life at sea, his herd of pet sea dogs down the southern shore, and the witcher’s monster slaying life.

The food in his stomach has effectively warmed the siren’s body. His attention soon shifts to something else, something funny next to where the witcher is sitting, next to the two shiny weapons abandoned to the side. 

“What is that thing?” Will points at the ‘thing’ and asks with curiosity.

Hannibal picks up the ‘thing’ that Will is referring to. It’s a drawing pad that Hannibal carries with him all the time. On the rough, yellowish parchment is a charcoal sketch of the siren floating in water, perfectly shaded and detailed. In the drawing, the siren’s hair is flowing in the water he is half-submerged in like wavy seaweeds, his eyes closed tight and eyelashes long, his ears pointy and nose delicate, the soft slack lips are slightly opened in deep sleep, his front teeth just peeking though the gap between. Above his prominent collarbones, the siren’s neck is long, appropriately muscle like a youth of the human race. Hannibal has been half way through shading the chest when the siren woke.

“This? It’s a drawing. My drawing of you.” Hannibal answers.

“Draw-?” Will frowns.

“I needed something to do while waiting for you to wake up.” Hannibal says, he tilts the paper towards the water to let Will have a look.

Long, pale blue fingers comes up, caressing the drawing, leaving a tiny wet trail along the surface where he is touching the parchment. His fingertip lingers down the neckline of himself in the sketch, the siren suddenly becomes self-aware. He retracts his hand in surprise, placing his palm and fingers on his throat, searching for something missing around his neck.

_It’s gone…_

“It is gone…It’s gone-!“ Will screeches, baring his teeth, his mind slipping back into Elder Speech. “Have you- Have you seen- Did you steal it, witcher?”

“I don’t understand.” The witcher frowns and shakes his head, confused.

“It’s from my father. I-UGH. ” Will says in a small voice, hating himself for showing his weakness in front of this stranger. He bites his lips, apparently very, very upset. He curses before disappearing into the depth of the clear blue pool. “GO DRY UP. HANNIBAL THE WITCHER.”

 _DRY UP_? Stunned, it takes a few seconds for Hannibal’s mind to catch up. The sea creature wants him to _drown himself_. 

With a low chuckle, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers linger tenderly on the smooth surface of a large perfect glowing blue pearl that was strapped around the siren’s neck.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a Witcher AU I've been scribbling down for a while. Thanks to the fest I am now finishing this silly story. Merman/ Siren/Creature!Will is my passion XD Thanks for reading! Comments and Kudos are welcome <3 Hugs! 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr too :D [@vulcanplomeeksoup](http://vulcanplomeeksoup.tumblr.com) Come chat with me about Hannibal !


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